WordPress

I am thrilled to be in Distinction magazine twice in this latest edition – once for a story on artistic director Tom Quaintance and the Virginia Stage Company, and again with a quick review of a little gem of a restaurant, Clementine’s at Riverview.

(I’ll link to the Clementine’s story ASAP when I can find it online. :/)

The more I do it, the more I appreciate my opportunities to stretch into new areas and challenge myself as a freelance feature writer. I still enjoy following and writing about sports, although not as much as, say, a decade ago. But back then I would have never foreseen myself diving into the guts of a theater-company’s comeback, profiles of Eastern Shore artists or the ins and outs of making bourbon in Virginia.

This new direction has been great so far, and I look forward to treading more different turf as 2019 unfolds. I’ve said this before, but I also plan to post on this blog much more often, touching on this and that and hopefully keeping my wits and writing chops sharper in between paid assignments.

I’ve pulled the trigger, so to speak, on running my first half-marathon.

I sort of can’t believe it. Actually, no sort-of about it. As I often tell friends, there is no way I pictured myself as an endurance runner, biker, swimmer, endurance anything ever in my lifetime as recently as two years ago. That kind of torture-your-body stuff held no appeal for me. Zero. But once I accidentally fell into doing triathlons – my first was a sprint in Santa Cruz two years ago on a whim to accompany my daughter – it gradually, to my surprise, became serious enough that I now pay a trainer every month to design workouts so I can get stronger and compete better within my age group. I am down that rabbit hole, in other words.

By that relation, then, my physical stamina has improved to where the thought of a six-mile run no longer intimidates me or my knees; I actually look forward to them. (Who IS this stranger?!) But only recently have I considered stepping up to race twice that distance (plus 1.1 miles).

Among the many things that training consistently, really for the first time in my life, and confidently have taught me is to not be afraid of new challenges. Respect them, for sure, and protect myself from injury always. There is nothing I dread more, except hitting a fly-over-the-handlebars pothole, than a foot or leg injury setting me way back and canceling all the conditioning gains I’ve made. At 60, lengthy rehab processes are not welcome.

That’s a long way of saying I stopped pondering signing up for a half-marathon in Richmond in five weeks and actually committed to the 13.1 miles the other day. (Dee, a strong natural runner despite her denials, will join me there for the 8K.) Longtime runners and endurance racers will scoff at my little proclamation, and that fact that I admit to being a little afraid of it. Trepidatious? I’m pretty sure seven miles is the longest I’ve ever run at one time; I pokey-poked out that distance sometime last year. But wonderfully amid all that, I have discovered a new-found belief in myself as a (competitive) athlete that I thought was long past. It brings me back every day. I train with gratitude for being able to run, ride or swim (with relative little pain at this point) in the first place. I find satisfaction in a new identity and a physical relevance that makes me happy.

Advice I’ve found online, as well as from my coach, cautions me to focus on completing this first half without a time goal, to not let the adrenaline of race day and a too-quick start ruin my run, to more than anything breathe in the scene. Accept as its own reward the act of stepping up to a challenge and staring it down.

So yes, I hope to keep my wits and keep it real, firm in the faith that this half is just another next step toward keeping me whole.

I love the variety of stories I get to do now as a freelancer here and about town. This one, for Growler magazine, just came out. I learned everything there is to know about building craft beer pubs and manufacturing plants! OK, I learned almost nothing about all of that. But I DID learn a lot about Randy Thomas, who actually does know pretty much everything there is to know about the aforementioned beer-building subjects. And what he doesn’t know, Thomas figures out on his own. FigureItOut. FIO. Some of us are way better than others re that ability. Thomas is inspiring in that regard.

Brooks Koepka, a very good professional golfer, just won the U.S. Open for the second year in a row. This is a simple sentence that is more than it seems, because going back-to-back at the Open is a devilishly tough chore to accomplish for a number of reasons. The event moves each year is the main one, unlike the Masters. The United States Golf Association is notorious for its lunacy of monkeying with whichever course is in play to keep the winning score at or near par. Getting to peak performance level 365 days later is another reason.

It’s just hard, OK, even for the world’s best. In any event, very few men have won the U.S. Open in consecutive years. Koepka has pushed that list to seven, adding a name for the first time in 29 years.

You might have heard the last to do it was Curtis Strange, who was born in Norfolk, raised in Virginia Beach and went on to a world golf hall of fame career. Strange was a fierce, almost crazed competitor. He brought remarkable intensity to his job, fire that burned and flared and was impossible to sustain into his golfing twilight more than a decade ago. Now a broadcaster, Strange actually was the first media member to interview Koepka after his Sunday round, which was an interesting twist.

Interesting because Strange, at his zenith, had a far and wide reputation as being one of golf’s biggest jerks. It drove him to greatness as it drove away people outside his circle. The irony of him now making his living in the media is delicious. Strange’s arrogance followed him into his broadcasting career, never so much as when Strange, while still an active player, interviewed Tiger Woods as Woods launched his career in 1996. The “you’ll learn” interview. Watch it here and cringe. (Right or wrong, Strange has always stood by his remarks as being representative of fans who were incredulous over Woods’ own youthful confidence/arrogance.)

This is all to say I actually always liked Strange in my few dealings with him as a sports writer.

I came to writing about golf late in Strange’s career, when his mellowing, believe it or not, had begun. I’m pretty sure my first dealing with him was when he played the U.S. Open at Pinehurst in 1999. I remember he was paired the first two rounds with Jack Nicklaus, and that one of his sons carried his bag. Strange missed the cut but was patient and gracious as he discussed the thrill of working with his son aside Nicklaus.

I interviewed Strange multiple times later on; when he came to Portsmouth to do a clinic at the Bide-a-Wee course he’d redesigned years earlier. I have a photo of he and I talking on the range. When he was the Ryder Cup captain in 2002, a losing one, but whatever. I prepared to cover that Cup at The Belfry in England, but alas my employer pulled the plug. :/ I WAS sent to Naples, Fla. to cover Strange’s senior tour debut in 2005, when it seemed apparent his heart wasn’t in it after enduring some personal struggles. That sense turned out correct; Strange was an indifferent senior player for only a few seasons. And once more to Florida in 2007 to write about Strange’s induction to the hall of fame.

I think the last time we spoke was in 2011 at Congressional outside D.C. when Strange, with ESPN at that time, analyzed Rory McIlroy’s U.S. Open victory for me for my column. In all those times, I never recall him directing a cross or impatient word toward me. Sarcastic, yes, but all in fun. My former colleague Jim Ducibella, for instance, who was at Augusta when Strange blew the Masters, can’t necessarily say that. Shudder.

So Curtis is through as a running footnote to history, at least as the U.S. Open is concerned. Some applaud, but I never begrudged him his time on that stage. However you regard Strange, a yearly curtain call for such rare achievement seemed fair by me.

We finally got the fence completed in the new, big backyard so the dogs can roam around to their heart’s content. There are trees, flowers, lots of grass and fresh air to sniff. The openness has even put a spring in Ollie’s step. He trots a bit across the expanse now and then, bad hips and all. It’s heartening to see the old boy romp that way again, if only for a few seconds at a time.

The guilty party.

What could be wrong with that picture?

Well, where Ollie seems just happy to be out there, Atticus, the Australian shepherd/collie mix, has a mission in life. And that’s to protect. Protect and chase. Protect, chase and, oh yeah, to dig, dig, dig. To specifically find and dig up the mole that burrowed a tell-tale tunnel in a particular part of the yard.

I open the door to the back and Atticus bolts down the steps and sprints to that area over by the tree bed. Nose to the ground, he bloodhounds and frantically searches for a sign that any mole or vole might be in his reach. The slightest hint provokes the deepest, hardest dig, dirt and grass flying from beneath his paws as if they are threshers.

Unless I am standing there as well, in the role of playground monitor, in a matter of minutes the holes in the mulch and the twisting cavern in the yard, which I’ve repeatedly covered over with a rake, are back, as bad as new.

The unfortunate unintended consequence is that, if and until we come up with another solution, Atticus is reduced to bathroom visits to the yard before repairing to the deck and screened porch, where he can wander but also be confined to the premises.

The moral: Dogs will be dogs, diggers will dig, and what in the sad hell are you gonna do?

Yep, I still have this blog. I’ve ignored it, which I hate, and which also is ironic because I’ve had more to write about in the last few months than probably the last couple years combined. Here’s the update, for those of you keeping score of my life, ha.

Sold house. Moved to Williamsburg. Traveled through (another) part of Europe. Got engaged in the Eiffel Tower, you bet. Traveled to Vancouver. Ran a triathlon in Boulder, Co. and visited my awesome Coloradan son. Helped my then-fiance, the incredible Dee, pack up and move to a great, new house the next street over. Carted so much to the dump. Kept a slew of local tradesmen in business at the old house due to cracked pipes, no heat, drywall and paint needs, electricians for swapping out light fixtures. Ch-ching ch-ching. Fell down a slick dog ramp one frozen, oh-dark-30 morning. Took my breath away. Felt lucky I didn’t get a concussion or worse. And oh yeah, got married before about 160 family and great, great friends two weeks ago.

Hired one of the best party bands I’ve ever seen, BJ Griffin and the Galaxy Groove, out of Virginia Beach, and threw one of the best wedding parties I and many of our guests had ever seen. BJ even let me sing a song with the boys (and lady). Jesus, was that a blast! Thank you, thank you, thank you, BJ.

Got hammered at the after party, endured a bleh-bleh drive to Richmond early the next morning, but totally enjoyed our first trip to an all-inclusive Mexican resort in Playa del Carmen. A note on that: until late in our trip, we had NO idea a ferry in Playa del Carmen had recently been bombed and that cautionary bulletins were issued about being careful in PDC. Glad we didn’t know, for sure. Ignorance totally contributed to our bliss.

All around that, I got to write some very cool stories, among them: a Q&A with golfer Marc Leishman, a piece on the PGA Tour Champions coming to Richmond, a feature on three Eastern Shore artists – MamaGirl Onley, Moe Spector and Clarence “Black Elvis” Giddens — that I loved.

Now, we’re into high school baseball, where as a head JV coach I’m trying to wrangle some semblance of baseball skills from a group of kids with a wiiiiiide range of ability, to say the least.

God, am I lucky. Touched. Blessed. Grateful – to be loved, to love, to parent, to coach, to write, learn, live and run.

It’s truly a long story about a man and a woman. Cal Bowdler was an Old Dominion basketball player who was a first-round NBA draft pick who flamed out in three dubious years. His wife Brooke was a junkie. They were trying to work out a life that ultimately did not work out. Hearsay, but I am told Brooke appeared on the Dr. Phil show Friday and blamed her drug problem on her ex-husband. Certainly there is more that was said, and I don’t know why Brooke (formerly Tamara) warrented being on the show in the first place, so we will all consult Professor Google and perhaps see for ourselves. Viewers obviously already did that and resuscitated a cold, dusty tale.

Anyway, I was interested to hear that this story resurfaced for a day. I remember all the machinations of writing it, and I am happy with the final work that came from it all.

Orange Theory Fitness. Know it? Ever hear of it? I hadn’t until about a month or so ago, when Dee started attending workout sessions at the OTF studio newly opened in Williamsburg. She loved the 55-minute, high-intensity interval group (20ish people) workouts overseen by a highly caffeinated coach barking out marching orders over an ear-splitting hype soundtrack. Man, just writing that sentence was a high-intensity workout.

Anyway, I just entered my rest-recovery-maintain fitness phase of my budding, old-guy triathlon career. Orange Theory sounded like something that could potentially work into the mix. Turns out my theory was correct. It is in my mix, and not going away soon.

The philosophy behind Orange Theory is all about heart, specifically your heart rate. Exercisers wear a heart monitor around their chest or upper arm that reads out on a screen above the treadmills and rowing machines that are essential to an OTF workout. (Half the workout also involves dumbbells, body weight lifts or TRX bands.) Essentially, everyone has a “maximum heart rate” based on age and gender. The coaches aim to harangue, um, urge and support, you into working the various exercises at a pace that will keep your heart rate in the green (71-83 percent of your max rate), orange (84-91 percent) or red (92-100 percent, lung-busting, obscenity-screaming) zones up on the screen.

Much has been written the last few years about how the best workouts for cardio, strength and weight loss are high-intensity interval workouts. I believe it. And while I have tried to do those combo workouts on my own, along the lines of P90x and such, for years, having a coach pushing you through the pain raises the bar much higher than you, meaning I, can maintain it on my own.

At the end, your calories burned, average heart rate for the workout and number of minutes you spent in the orange and red zones, called splat points for a reason I’m not sure of, appear on the screen, so you can chart all that based on whether it was designed to be a “power” workout, “endurance” or what have you.

As in everything, you get out what you put in. I go twice a week with Dee (she goes more) — usually pre-dawn, which feels nuts most mornings – and leave a puddle of perspiration. It is satisfied sweat, though. We know challenges are being met, fitness increases are being seen, and great mojo for the day – and the spring tri season — is being cultivated. In more than just theory.

A painter and sculptor of wood and stone whose sylvan retreat includes a graveyard and whale bones salvaged from a nearby beach.

An African American “Elvis tribute” singer and musician embarked on the second wind of a fascinating, accidental career.

A mystical, “spirit trained” artist and former field hand who fashions popular creations in her doublewide mobile home from only newspaper, glue and paint.

It’s been my treat in the last week to spend time with each of them on Virginia’s quirky and time-warped Eastern Shore. It’s for a local magazine story that will get at the character and the unique artistic vibe found on that stretch of land most of us know as the prairie to be crossed to get from Virginia Beach to Salisbury and points north.

My interactions and interviews are obviously still stewing around in my head; the work of committing them all to compelling words and narrative is pending. But my two five-hour round trips to the nooks of the Shore, with a side visit to the Chincoteague oceanfront thrown in, were (the most recent) reinforcements of how lucky I still am for the opportunity to sit with strangers and, with their invitation (and for money), let my natural curiosities loose on them.

You are always alone when you write, but never more so than when you commit to writing on commission on someone else’s deadline. Isolation is often a friend, except at those frequent times when it is not. That’s the reality that helps me appreciate, as I began to do in my latter full-time days, the universal forces that allow me to do this thing I do.

There will be pressure, self-imposed as always, to give these stories the truth and energy they deserve. But it is a pulsing thing that lends vitality – and yes, a central relevance – to this phase of time that despite all still seems to answer to “transitional.”